Truth
by fanficsofclare
Summary: Sherlock stands on the top of St. Barts. John is below. They're talking on the phone. "I'm a fake, John." It's true. There is no Sherlock Holmes


Sherlock

"I'm a fake, John."  
John doesn't make a noise. He doesn't deny it. He knows it's true. There is no Sherlock Holmes. He knows. All of it is a lie. He has nothing to say as his Sherlock falls from the building.  
X  
Harry Trick was really just a boy when he read Sherlock Holmes by his favourite author, Arthur Conan Doyle.  
He was struggling with school and the everyday. He was bullied. He was badly bullied. A guy named Frank hit him and hit him every damn day, making the other kids laugh and jeer. Then, when Frank knew no one else was watching, Frank would kiss Harry. He would kiss and he would touch and Harry could not stop him. Harry's parents were going through a rough divorce. Harry's dad used to beat up his mum and his younger brother. His mum used to beat up him. Live was hard. Live was hopeless.  
So, when Harry stumbled apon the Sherlock Holmes novel, he instantly fell in love with Sherlocks world.  
Harry was so obsessed with the book, it became all he would talk about, all he ever thought about.  
He wished nothing more than to be Sherlock. Having adventures and solving crimes.  
Harry would bribe his brother Tom, with gin from the top cupboard, to play with him as Mycroft and they would go off into the woods to track animals.  
Harry began to forget real life. He forgot his own name. He would only answer to Sherlock or Mr Holmes. He never called Tom by his real name, only by Mycroft. He had forgotten the every day. He wished he could just stop doing the every day.  
He went to school. He got slapped and kicked and punched and spat at. Then, Frank would take him to the toilets and do things to him. It made Harry cry and he could not stop Frank. Tears made Frank angrier and made him want Harry more. Frank loved Harry's little Sherlock idea. He always called him that when they were together, alone.  
"Frank, please. Not today." Harry cried as his beaten body was dragged to the second floor bathroom.  
"Shut up." Frank would growl. "I know you enjoy it, so don't try and get out of it."  
Then Harry was dropped on the ground and forced to stand against the wall. Frank would hold him against it and kiss him all over. Harry would try to protest and push him away but Frank would only have to moan "Sherlock" in Harry's ear and Harry would be Franks.  
Then, Harry would go home, utterly alone. Sometimes, after a really good time, Frank would walk across the road from Harry and make sure he gets home okay, because no one else touched his toy. But either way, Harry was alone.  
At dinner, which was very rare, Harry would swirl around the food on his plate and refuse to eat a single bite. Then he would take Tom out to the woods to play Detectives.  
Tom had read the books, after much pressure from Harry, and decided he'd rather be John Watson.  
"No, you can't be John because John and Sherlock are together. We have to make this as real as possible. And I'm not going to shag you." Harry explained.  
"So I guess Frank is John then." Tom muttered. He realised what he had said all too late.  
"How do you... Who told you?" Harry yells.  
"I hear you talk in your sleep. You moan his name. Harry, you're only 15. Why are you shagging Frank?" Tom asks, because he's so very concerned. A strong hand smacks Tom across his face.  
"My name is Sherlock you little bitch!" Harry screams.  
There are tears streaming down Toms face. Harry never hit him. Harry was the only one who didn't.  
"What happened to you, Harry?" He whimpers before running home.  
"I became better." Harry says to himself. It's suddenly raining and the trees offer little protection, yet Harry just stands there.  
No one is around.  
No one would know.  
No one would miss him.  
Harry takes one last look at the path that lead back home and sprints deeper into the woods.  
He doesn't know where he's going. He has no idea where he'll end up. But it's got to be better than this, right?

When Harry is 18, he legally changed his name to Sherlock Holmes. He starts solving crimes. Minor ones at first. Like, Who took the money? Or What went missing from the database? Then the cases got harder and Sherlock got better.  
But, much to Sherlocks disappointment, none if the cases matched the stories. In fact, not much in his life matched the books. He needed to change that.  
He tracked down his brother, who was working as a bank manager. He told Tom that he's a better man now and that he was ready to apologise. He took him to dinner and then proposed coffee at Sherlocks flat. Unknowingly walking into a trap, Tom agreed.  
He was met with a gun, pointed right to his brain.  
"Tomorrow, you come with me to change your name to Mycroft Holmes. You act out your part in the books and you remain alive. Okay?" Sherlock whispered, looking very sinister in the dark room. Tom sees a human shaped skull on the counter top and knows the only thing to do is to agree.  
Now that Sherlock had a Mycroft, he needed a Moriarty. He needed someone to kill and devise plans and be his enemy.  
One day, while Sherlock was out in a bar looking for a one night stand, he bumps into a shy man named Richard Brooke. Richard has so much potential. He is just how Sherlock imagined him. He out-drinks Richard and brings him home with promises of passion and pleasure.  
They have sex before the gun is pointed at Richard. Richard is weak and feeble and agrees to anything before Sherlocks demands out given.  
Sherlock briefly explains Moriarty's part in the story. Richard cannot protest as the gun clicks and he is reduced to a crying mess.  
"I do love it when they cry." Sherlock sneers before having one last go at Moriarty before they become official enemies.  
Then, it seems that Sherlocks life is a lot like the story. But something is missing, Sherlock can't help but think.  
And that certain something, or someone, comes knocking the very next day.  
"Hello, I'm calling about the lodger sign in the window. My name is John Watson, You must be Sherlock." The man introduces himself on the doorstep. Sherlock beams and invites him in.  
"Let me guess. You're an ex army doctor. Shot in the leg." He blurts out. John nods.  
"Fantastic." He awes.  
"Mr. John, are you familiar with the works of sir Arthur Conan Doyle?" Sherlock asks, pouring some tea.  
"An ex-lover of mine would not shut up about it." John laughs.  
They lock eyes and skip the tea and head for the bedroom. In a matter of seconds, they are a sweaty mess of angst and sexual pain. Sherlock had his suspicions but the way John moans "Sherlock" in his ear confirms his bully has returned. Bully or not, he's needed in Sherlocks story and Sherlock had really missed the way his hips moved with his. Grinding and grinding. Sherlock had missed having scratches and bruises left by John. He left his own mark on Johns neck, a big purple hickey.  
Everyday, seeing that hickey made Sherlock pounce on John and savage him viciously and perfectly. When they worked together on a case, John was forbidden from calling him Sherlock, because that made Sherlock agonisingly hard and needy. One time, they had been caught right on the bed of the crime scene and they could not risk it.  
So, Sherlocks life became practically identical to the books. After a wonderful night with John, Sherlock remembers a detail he missed out. He sat up in bed and woke his partner.  
"We can't be together." He mutters and John looks over in shock.  
"What?" He whispers.  
"In the books you marry a woman called Mary." Sherlock explains.  
"But I don't like any one called Mary. I like you." John says, resting his hand on Sherlocks exposed and tempting thigh.  
"But everything has to be like the book." Sherlocks demands.  
"Why? Why always the book?" John asks, trying the distract Sherlock with his hands, running them up his leg to his groin and back down again.  
"Please stop." Sherlock whimpered.  
"I don't want to marry anybody. I like it with just us." John says, trailing his fingers softly up and down Sherlocks inner thigh.  
"But, the book-" Sherlock gasps and bats away Johns wondering hand.  
With a devilish smile John leans forward so his lips aline with Sherlocks ear and whispers "Sherlock, please" in his ear. He whimpers and doesn't resist Johns lips.  
The subject of Mary is dropped in seconds as they melt into each other, becoming one.

John closes the book he was reading and looked over at Sherlock, who was examining some blood samples. John stands up and walks to Sherlock.  
"Sherlock, we need to stop now." He says, patting him on the back.  
"Stop... What?" Sherlock asks.  
"This whole Sherlock thing." John says, waving his arm around.  
"Nonsense." Sherlock scoffs.  
"Sherlock, look at me." John demands, but Sherlock remains glued to his microscope.  
"Harry, please." John pleads. It's been years since anybody called him that.  
"Shut up." Sherlock spits.  
"I read the books. I won't let you die." John explains.  
"This Sherlock thing stops right now." John commands.  
"John, what are you talking about? That's stupid." Sherlock grumbles.  
"My name is Frank and yours is Harry. It's all fake. I refuse to let you die. You will give up the silly business and we can live happily together." Frank urges, trying to tidy away the blood and equipment.  
"Get out."  
"No, not until you admit it's stupid." Frank stops in his tracks.  
"Get out of my house. I never want to see you again."  
Frank takes a look at his Harry and heads for the door. Before he leaves, he stops and looks back again.  
"Harry, I won't allow you to die. I... I love you and I refuse to lose you. Not again. Please." Frank sobs.  
"Again?" Sherlock asks, in a flat voice.  
"When you ran away. I missed you. More than I should have. I spent my years looking for you. I dedicated myself to your obsession because you're my obsession. I'm not losing you again." Sherlock has abandoned his science and is looking intently at Frank.  
"I... I couldn't survive without you. Not properly. I... I did things to myself." Frank gulps. He lifts his arm and shows Sherlock his left wrist. There are faint lines were Frank had to get stitches.  
"You told me it was an army wound." Sherlock mutters, his eyes glistening with tears.  
"I lied. I did it to myself. Barely survived."  
"You shouldn't have. You could have died." Sherlock gulps. The tears threatening to fail from his eyes.  
"And I'll do it again." Frank says.  
"Okay, Frank. I love you. I won't do the Sherlock thing. Just come here." Harry yells, opening his arms to welcome Frank into a warm hug.  
"Never leave me, please." Frank sobs into Harry's neck.  
"Never hurt yourself again." Harry snuffles back, pulling Frank in as tight as he could.

But the Sherlock thing continued.  
And Sherlock fell. And John was lonely. And he dragged the blade across his arms and he did it again and again. Over and over again.


End file.
